Monday, November 28, 2011

GBE2's topic for the week is "Bucket List," which means things you want to do before you "kick the bucket." My desires are short but mine.

(1) I want to publish a novel. Although my third manuscript is strong, it's been rejected by a few–okay a lot–of agents, but that's their mistake. I mean, who wouldn't want to be engrossed in a story about a teenager running from mob dudes?

My fifth book is also strong, but I have yet to quit polishing it and send it out. It's difficult for an author to drop her hands from the keyboard and say, "This is as good as it's gonna get." Plus, after meeting Linda Sue Park, I'm determined to make every detail and object in the novel count–including the blue bucket. I'm just not there yet; but when I am, hopefully the world will enjoy meeting Knob.

(2) I want to travel to New Zealand and visit Rhonder. I've never been to NZ, Australia, Fiji Islands, or anywhere else in that corner of the world. Unfortunately, we are college poor as we work to educate our young. But one day, I will sell my award winning novel and hop on a plane across the world. Please God, let it not be a Delta flight!

As far as bucket lists go, is there such a thing as an anti-bucket list, aka - things I DON'T want to do? We can call this the mop list since mops take care of what falls out of the bucket... and it's usually a mess to clean up.

I don't want to sky dive. Rhonder did, and it almost killed her.

I don't roller coaster or thrill ride. I even wet my pants on the little log flume at Six Flags.

I have no desire to visit the moon, the bottom of the ocean, or war torn countries.

Call me no fun, but I'm a gal who likes her feet on the ground. Now socially, I have no filter and have been prone to say what comes out of my mouth! If that doesn't make sense, you don't know me. ;-)

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Since you asked, here is the story behind Wilberfoss' name. Daniel's been calling Erica "Erca" for years, and he also named Judy "Mirum." When we visited Charleston for his graduation, one of his friends was confused. She thought Daniel had four sisters.

Friday, November 25, 2011

My daughter had a flight on Delta this Thanksgiving Holiday. She started by sitting on the runaway for an hour or more because of weather. I'm not sure what sort of weather threatened Orlando, Florida, but my guess would be a winter storm system blowing blizzard like conditions through the sunshine state.

By the time she arrived in Atlanta, her connections to Baltimore had finished loading and under penalty of law--NO PASSENGERS SHALT BE ALLOWED TO BOARD. Fear not, a flight to Knoxville prepared to take off, and we'd be passing through that city in thirty minutes. The nice man at the ticket counter plugged the changed flight arrangements into his computer and printed her a lovely paper that he signed. "Just take this to the Knoxville gate and board."

Lying snakes! After lugging her luggage (I guess that's why it's called luggage) through the delightful Atlanta airport, the nameless clerk–Judith Campbell– would not let my daughter onto the plane. She snarled at her as she said, "He's not authorized to change your flight." Mind you, she's not authorized to be a clerk! Instead of simply letting her on a plane, Dumb Delta paid to put an eighteen year old in a hotel by herself, give her a voucher for breakfast, and make her get up at an unGodly hour to board an early flight--that also sat on the runway due to mechanical problems. Finally they allowed the plane to take off–NOT! Apparently the radio malfunctioned, so they stopped the take off to turn around and get it fixed.

I spoke to the Delta folks and told them, she needs the price of her ticket refunded. The "nice" lady told me the only way to get the money back is to send her back to Orlando. She offered me a whopping $150 voucher. Wow! One-hundred, fifty whole dollars! Delta sucks! Unfortunately to use the voucher one has to get back on one of those *&;#% planes.

Sunday, November 20, 2011

The theme of this week's GBE2 post is laughter. The first thing that came to mind was that delightful song from Mary Poppins. When the movie hit theaters in 1964, my mom wouldn't let me see it because, "I couldn't sit through a movie." Having never been to a movie, I pictured tall seats that one had to balance on or you'd fall off. Why else could I not "sit" through it? Eventually I saw reruns of Mary Poppins on cable, and this scene is awesome.

Laughing from a movie is great, but the best kind of laughter is the home-spun-something-funny-just-happened type. As a teacher, nothing beats making a class laugh. It satisfies my unfilled dream of being a stand up comic. I also hope to make kids laugh with my writing. According to Bruce Coville, that's easy. You just need to include the magic words: fart, pooh, underwear, toilet, and what was the other? Excuse me, I'm having a Rick Perry moment.

At my ten-year high school reunion, we all folded up when reminiscing about sixth grade. When anyone was feeling playful, they'd whisper "underwear" and everyone within earshot would crack up. underwear. Underwear. Underwear! UNDERWEAR! Are you laughing yet? If not, congratulations. You've made it out of the sixth grade mentality.

As for farts, my son said it best in eighth grade, "When we were in sixth grade and someone farted, it wasn't funny; but now, it's hysterical!" Here's the proof. Boys become less mature with age. Although in reality, an occasional fart in an odd setting can still make adults cackle.

Sometimes laughter isn't good medicine. I'll never forget my husband making me giggle after surgery. He didn't realize how much his jokes hurt until I cried from laughing. Then there's the old, "Don't make me laugh or I'll wet my pants." Who has never leaked from more than just the eyes when something was funny?

She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named recently told us a story about not being able to hold her pee when laughing. (Pee-that's Coville's other magic word!) She was at a neighbor's house playing a game called, "Naked City." All the little girls took off their clothes and sat around laughing. Unfortunately, laughter led to wetting the neighbor's carpet. She never told her friends or the neighbor's Mom what happened. All I can say to that is POOR Cocoa! I'm sure that black lab got a bawling out for that one.

I leave you with another great movie. This scene from Singing in the Rain makes me laugh every time I watch it.

Saturday, November 19, 2011

Here's another one that's been floating around awhile. Whatever works! For more fun, hop over to Rhonda's and join her Silly Sunday Hop.

A man in Phoenix calls his son in New York the day before Thanksgiving and says,"I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.

"Pop, what are you talking about?" the son screams.

"We can't stand the sight of each other any longer," the father says. "We're sick of each other, and I'm sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Chicago and tell her."

Frantic, the son calls his sister, who explodes on the phone. "Like heck they're getting divorced," she shouts, "I'll take care of this."

She calls Phoenix immediately and screams at her father, "You are NOT getting divorced. Don't do a single thing until I get there. I'm calling my brother back, and we'll both be there tomorrow. Until then, don't do a thing, DO YOU HEAR ME?" and hangs up.

The old man hangs up his phone and turns to his wife. "Okay," he says, "they're coming for Thanksgiving and paying their own way."

Friday, November 18, 2011

Pain or surgery When faced with back pain, I saw three docs in hopes one would say, "No surgery needed." Finally, I had the operation, but it was different with my mole. Dr. Dewane wanted it in a jar, so I sat on the surgeon's table. "It's harmless," the surgeon said. "Bye." I hopped off the table.

Red, golden, or dark brown When the price difference is $8 vs. $80, I'll color my own hair; but, it varies from bottle to bottle. Once the hair flamed bright red and matched my face. You get what you pay for. My mole is brown.

Ignorance or bliss The infamous they say, "Ignorance is bliss," but I'd rather be informed. The Occupy Wall Street message needs to be told. Corporations have avoided paying taxes by buying politicians to vote their passions; but this is a humor blog, and that isn't funny. The mole continues to occupy my leg.

Orange juice or something else I grew up drinking orange juice, but it's my least favorite type of juice. I love oranges but drinking its juice doesn't turn me on. I also grew up with a mole on my right calf. It's been there longer than many of my readers have been alive.Red or white I've never been much of a wine drinker but if given the choice, I'll always choose white--less chance of someone noticing it when I spill it on my shirt. Also, if I were to spill red wine on my mole, someone might mistake it for blood and make me remove it.

Ice cream or frozen yogurt I don't notice a difference. People insist that yogurt is better for you. I like it all the same and will eat whatever. I also like my mole, and I'm not letting some knife holder cut it out, even if he offered me a cold treat.Terror or comedy films If you've read my blog, you know the answer to this one. For anyone new here, feel free to look around. I dare you not to laugh! No my mole is NOT scary and most posts are not as lame as this one. Ick another I Have you ever noticed when writing acrostic poems, you always have two of the letter that stumps you? Is that Murphy's Law? I can't even think of an I for the mole because it's not icky.

Elves or dwarfs I've never been into fantasy, although I confess, I enjoyed Tolkien's The Hobbit. I got hooked in chapter five when I read, "What has it got in its pocketes?" Usually mine contain a dirty Kleenex; but, it's not dirty from the mole. It's NEVER leaked fluid! Shot or the flu If you'd have asked me thirty years ago, I would've chosen the flu. Now, I've grown up and take shots like a big girl. I once tore out of a doctor's office to avoid a shot. I was only wearing underwear while multiple nurses chased me.What did they expect from a little seventeen-year-old girl? ☺ Of course when they tried to remove my mole, I ran too.

Monday, November 14, 2011

Funny that this week's topic should be about surprises because my husband is planning my surprise birthday party right now. We've been invited to Vic's Dirty Santa party on December second (close to my big 50). Although my husband claims this is Vic's annual party, we've never been invited to it.

He said, "Oh, sure. He's invited us before. I just never wanted to go."

Yeah, right.

Mitchell threw me a surprise birthday party when I turned 30 and 40, so I figure it's time again. Of course, I'm a stink pot when it comes to these things, so he might not want to plan one for 60 (or this year). Ten years ago at the last minute, I told him I was sick of the restaurant we were headed to and wanted to go somewhere else. My bad. I don't deserve him.

I of course, threw surprises for him on his 30th, 40th, and 50th too. The most recent was quite fun. My mother-in-law bought airline tickets to bring our two older kids to town. Without telling my husband, I took the afternoon off and picked up the kids. Later––when I'd normally be home, I called him at work and told him he had to come home because the upstairs toilet was over flowing and I didn't know what to do. When he said he was in the middle of something, I faked anger in my frantic state and told him he HAD to get home now.

Mitchell rushed to the rescue and proceeded to inspect the perfect toilet. "I don't see anything wrong with it," he grumbled.

"Me neither," our son said from behind him. The look on Mitchell's face was priceless, but the picture didn't come out well. :(

I'll let you know how my surprise birthday party goes--or maybe I'll be surprised when it doesn't happen. NAH! By the odd chance that it's not on the second, I'll just figure it's going to be late since the kids can't make it to town until after Christmas.

Friday, November 11, 2011

This week's Writer's Post topic is Vacation; however, don't you have to take one to write about it? Thanks to our wonderful Veteran's, I'm home today, but it's not a vacation. I'm on staycation. That means I spend my day off blogging.

Bermuda Honeymoon - 1986

Way back before sending kids to college or soccer tournaments, we used to take great vacations. Mitchell and I honeymooned in Bermuda. Nothing like riding a motor bike among the flowers.

After Bermuda, our vacations took a different feel when we added kids to the trip. The favorite game was "Let's Make Dad Mad." You pack the car and kids for a long drive, then listen to squabbling from the back seat until Dad stops the car–before we get off the driveway! We'd sit outside the house with my husband muttering, "We're not going. We're not going." Eventually the tears flooded the backseat and off we went.

We had some notable vacations, such as the time two kids threw up on the baby in the backseat of the van. At least kids can take baths and the car was a rental. Or the one where the daughter got lost in the museum and sent us into panic mode.

It could always be worse. Knock on wood, we never came home with broken bones like my first family did after French Lick, Indiana. I was soooo mad at my brother and sister for cutting our vacation short because they rode a bicycle built for two on the horse trail!

So sad!

Now our vacations come down to visiting the kids, which is awful since they chose boring places to live in. Our poor son lives in a city with nothing to do and horrible weather. He had to buy a boat to sail in the Charleston Harbor. Poor kid! Why would anyone want to live in a place with beautiful people, weather, and those awful palmetto trees all over the place?

At least she gets to play in snow.

Then there's our middle daughter who lives outside a culturally backwards small town. What's she supposed to do on the week-ends? Take a smelly subway to DC and visit museums? Such a boring place for a history major. (In case you didn't know, DC's subways are spotless)

Erica meets interesting people.

I feel sorriest for my baby who chose to go to school in Orlando. Poor kid is forced to ride those scary roller coasters at Universal Studios because the beach is too far of a drive. And the weather, yuck! She never gets to wear a coat or play in the snow.

Monday, November 7, 2011

The question, "Which is more important Nature or Nurture?," is up there with,"Which came first the chicken or the egg?" Both answers are hard to crack. When given this GBE 2 topic, I thought of Trading Places, a movie in which the Duke brothers bet $1 to see which mattered most: nature or nurture. Nurture won out, but the movie is fiction.

Goofy kids in bubble bath, circa 1995

Our three children have three distinct personalities. Just look at the photo and how each wore the bubbles in a different way. These babies born into the same environment were different from the start and still are... but maybe the environment wasn't truly the same? After all, we were calmer, more relaxed parents with the third born.

I've also heard that kids teach their parents how they should be treated by their nature. For example, a parent will interact differently with a wild child than a quiet one. So maybe nature beats nurture?

If nature wins, I still don't buy into crap about an inferior race. As a teacher, I've seen kids of all races, creeds, and colors in my intellectually gifted classes. I once taught an African American eight year old, who would read the Wall Street Journal when finished with his work. If you, the adult, didn't understand what he read, he'd explain it to you.

No race is inferior to another, although I can't say the same about parents. One of the hottest current videos on YouTube is that of a Texas judge whipping and cussing at his sixteen year old daughter for downloading music from the Internet. Really, moron? With a beating like that, one would think she made an assassination attempt on the president.

Unfortunately, physically and/or emotionally abusive parents are not the only inferior ones out there. Some well meaning adults hover over their darlings to the point of crippling their ability to think for themselves. So although nature has a strong hand in who we become, we can't ignore nurture.

Amazingly, many kids from horrid homes rise above abuse, neglect, and over-protectiveness to excel; while a kid from a great environment, swallowed mushrooms and drove his car through a house… then miraculously walked away unscathed.

To work a prestigious job, one must earn a college degree; however, the most important occupation in the world–parenting–requires no education at all. Why is that?

I leave you with the trailer from Trading Places, just in case you've never seen this wonderful movie.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

♥desire♥ |dəˈzī(ə)r| - nouna strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen

Well, ye-ah! I want it so badly I started this blog. I'm talking about that editor induced book contract.

Hello Mrs. Lansky. As your agent, I called to tell you that five houses loved your manuscript. One woman said, "It made her giggle like a little girl."

Another stated, "Lansky is a genius, and I must acquire her work." In fact, they are fighting for your manuscript at auction.

Mark Twain -AF Bradley's photo

I wish! I mean seriously. Besides a tomb stone, what do these guys got that I ain't got?

When to get published?That is the question.

I have five children's novels available for publication; and they are all funny! Four have that much desired boy protagonist.

Take your pick:

THE FRIENDSHIP PUZZLE - girl trauma at it's worst. Okay. As my first book, it probably sucks, but surely I could raise it to a higher standard.

DON'T EAT CHIPMUNKS - My thirteen-year-old narrator yearns for his summer adventure in the Colorado Rockies with his Jewish camp group. He soon finds himself struggling for survival, when he gets lost in the mountains with his favorite counselor and two worst enemies. I admit, Remi's a jerk at first, but he learns how to get along with others by the end. Isn't character growth important?

BEING BOMPSY CARLEFFA and THE KILLER WHO LOVED ME - Fifteen-year-old Ben lives with his mother in a crappy apartment and believes a lie about a father who died twelve years earlier. Life is sweet until a sleazy mobster kidnaps him, shows him that his entire life has been bullsh*t, and screws up his world—forever.

Of course it wouldn't be my book if Ben didn't have a sense of humor. One rejection letter said, "He's too funny for such a serious situation." Too bad professionals are turned off when one writes about one's friend who couldn't go to sleep because she was unable to put down the manuscript. --Yep, it's true, but I can't say that in a query letter. :(

MRS. ZIMMERMAN'S DONUTS - the coming of age story of ten year old Knob and his goofy friend. I recently blogged about it.

These stories have voice too. I know because folks tell me so in every rejection letter. Hellooooo. Agent, where are you? You are desired!